


Little Girl Lost

by the_roots_that_clutch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 10:58:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_roots_that_clutch/pseuds/the_roots_that_clutch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma survives being shot and finds a series of books by Carver Edlund.  She tracks down Claire Novak and together they go looking for their fathers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Girl Lost

Pain is an honor.

It’s what Madeline had said when Emma and the other girls underwent their training. Pain, she said, would make them strong. Amazons had to be strong—they were a dying breed. The twenty-first century had not been kind to them. They were warriors; they endured. 

Emma is tired of enduring. She’s different than the other girls, hesitant and contemplative. Her mind swims with questions, with thoughts of another world. She wants more than to be part of the tribe, more than her life to be dedicated to serving an absent goddess. She’s never known Harmonia, and even if she was blessed with being more than human, what does it matter? Does she owe service and devotion merely for being born into a world she didn’t ask to be a part of? Faith is trust, and trust is something to be earned. She trusted her mother when she sent her away, let her be lead into the lion’s den. Now she’s going to watch her die. 

Charlene says she is lucky it isn’t her, but she’s still upset over being shot. For all the talk of the Winchesters being the most frightening hunters, Emma is surprised Sam thought something as simple as a bullet could kill an Amazon. She remembers the bloom of pain, the look on her uncle’s face as he shot her. All he saw was a monster. Dean was different—he wouldn’t have pulled the trigger. Emma isn’t sure how she knows that, but it feels true. It feels real, realer than Madeline’s voice, realer than the lingering lessons she tries so hard to remember. _Pain is honor._

Lydia is kneeling on the stone floor before the tribe. It is her fault the initiation was unable to be completed. She mated with a hunter—a Winchester, to make it worse—and lead to exposure. Charlene and Emma had been shot and nearly killed. Emma still aches when she moves and her bandages have to be changed every few hours. It’s been days since the incident, and she hasn’t been allowed to speak to her mother. Madeline has sentenced her to death, but she’s waited until Emma could leave bed to execute her. Emma knows this is her punishment, to watch her mother die.

She is wrong.

Madeline turns to her, eyes locking on her face. “You failed your mission.”

Emma cannot look away from Madeline. The air is cold around her, chill to her bare arms, even with the rows of lit candles. There aren’t many temples for Harmonia left, and this one is far off the beaten path. Even if she managed to get her mother out of this room, they are miles from any sort of human civilization. They’d be tracked down and killed. Emma knows what she’s going to be asked to do, it settles in a tight knot in her stomach and a lump in her throat. Running isn’t an option; like always, she has no choice. 

“You couldn’t kill your father, so you will earn your place by killing the one who endangered us all.”

“I-” Emma digs her nails into the palm of her hand. She can’t speak, her words lodged in her throat. Her eyes go to her mother, whose head is still tilted high, even from down on her knees. She endured. Emma doesn’t think she’d have that strength; she’s afraid to die, afraid to live with what is being asked of her. But she has learned her lesson from her tribe; it’s kill or be killed. Tradition dictated she kill her father, and she hadn’t wanted to kill anyone, but it was kill Dean Winchester or die. This is different; this is her mother. Dean Winchester was a man she saw once, a man she didn’t know. Her father is a stranger; her mother is the only thing she’s ever loved. 

“It’s okay.” Lydia says, and forces a smile. “It’s okay, Emma.”

Madeline puts a knife in her hand, the very knife she was meant to kill her father with. Emma’s hands shake as she grips it, her heart beating so fast it hurts. Tears sting her eyes, but she holds them back. Tears are weakness; Amazons do not show weakness. 

Her mother closes her eyes when she plunges the knife through her heart. She doesn’t cry out, even as she crumples over, eyes wide and glassy. Her fingers wrap around Emma’s wrist and squeeze, a silent goodbye. Emma realizes with vague surprise that it’s as close as her mother ever came to saying she loved her.  
Emma wonders if she ever did, if she was ever wanted by anyone, ever anything more than an unwanted responsibility, an act of duty, a burden to be bared. She wonders if the positions were flipped would her mother find it as easy to kill her. It’s an easy question to answer. Her mother wouldn’t hesitate.  
She recalls how her father did, and she tries not to think of what that means. Dean Winchester is a good man, a good person. Emma isn’t. She’s an Amazon, and she doesn’t operate by human standards of morality. A conscious is a weakness, and she cannot afford those.

Sometimes, she wishes she could.

 

It takes her another week to heal. She’s a pariah amongst the others; none of them will look her in the eyes. She killed her own mother and let her father escape. They don’t trust her. Emma doesn’t care. She doesn’t trust them either. They watched her mother die with no objections. They didn’t care. 

“I want to find my father.”

Madeline barely looks up from the stack of papers in front of her. She’s building them all new identities and having them disappear. They start leaving tomorrow, then they’ll   
slowly go in small numbers. They can’t be too obvious with hunters on the lookout for them. “You nearly died last time, you aren’t risking us again.”

“He won’t hurt me.”

“It’s the other one that concerns me.”

Emma crosses her arms over her chest, feeling the scar under her shirt. It was proof of just how dangerous Sam Winchester could be. “He wasn’t supposed to be there. I was outnumbered.”

“You aren’t ready.”

Emma tilts her chin up and glares. “I’m ready.”

Madeline puts down her pen and folds her hands together. “You sound like a hunter.”

“I sound like a Winchester.” Emma says. “It’s why they’ll trust me.”

Madeline looks at her consideringly. “What makes you so willing all of a sudden? You’ve never been before.”

Emma thinks of the blood on her hands, of her mother’s blank eyes staring up at her, of warm fingers around her wrist. She thinks of Sam’s hard eyes and Dean’s plea. _You haven’t killed anyone yet._ Well, now she has. “Because if I had killed him then my mom would still be alive.”

Madeline looks at her steadily. “Yes, she would.”

Emma doesn’t break her gaze.

Madeline finally sighs. “Don’t expect us to come to your rescue again if things go south. You’re on your own.”

_I always have been._

 

There’s a series of books by Carver Edlund. Emma finds them all at a local library. She spends hours reading them, perched in an overstuffed orange chair, jotting down notes in a spiral notebook. The librarian, a woman with gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses keeps shooting her odd looks, but Emma ignores her. 

Somewhere while reading, she loses focus on research and her notebook lays forgotten by her feet. A clear image begins to form of the Winchesters, one vastly different than the one she has crafted. All she knows of Sam Winchester is that he’s a killer, her would be murderer. The books paint a different picture, one of a boy who wants to escape the world he was born into, desperate for independence and a life to call his own. It makes something in her ache to think of it. 

Her father is an enigma. The man presented on page is complex, more so than she would have imagined. She’d thought his being unable to kill her was a weakness, but the man she reads of has an amazing capacity to love, something that both makes him strong and weak. His love for his family is his defining characteristic. 

It takes three days to read through all the books, from the time the library opens until it closes. Emma’s notebook is nearly full of information about the Winchesters, names of friends and possible sources of information. On day four the librarian hands her a slip of paper with a web address on it, and tells her she can find a continuation of the series there, where someone posted Edlund’s unpublished manuscripts.

By the end of the series, Emma has tears building in her eyes. The story of the Winchesters is a story of sacrifice, of family and the depths they would be willing to go for each other. Emma wonders what it would be like, to have a mother like Mary Winchester, who loved so much, or a father like John, who was so very flawed, but who was willing to die so his son could live. She thinks of Sam, so eager to be free, and of Dean, who let him go even if it hurt. She can’t imagine her mother ever letting her leave the tribe. Lydia forced her into this world and things would have been very different if she had taken her and ran.

No one has ever loved her the way the Winchester boys love each other. The angels and Winchesters had spent years of their life obedient to an absent father. It’s only after John dies that Dean and Sam are able to grow. It makes Emma think of Lydia, of how she sent her off and told her to be a good girl. And she has. She’s fallen in line, done as she’s told. She’s still living inside the lines her mother drew for her. 

That line of thinking is dangerous. She has a mission. Her mother is dead and she has to avenge her. 

Nothing else matters.

 

The list of living friends of the Winchesters is short. People who know them have a nasty habit of ending up dead. Castiel seems to be their closest friend; Bobby was a dead end, quite literally. Even having no experience with angels, Emma’s smart enough to realize taking one on is a suicide mission. She wouldn’t even know how to find him besides.

She’s been looking into the lure on angels, which is both plentiful and contradictory, and some of it suggests that a former angelic vessel may retain the memories of the angel possessing them. Castiel is still using Jimmy Novak as far as she knows, but he isn’t the only person Castiel has ever used as a vessel.

It isn’t hard to find Jimmy’s daughter.

Claire Novak is sixteen years old, but her eyes carry the weight of longer years. There’s something strained in her smile when she opens the door to her motel room. She’s wearing worn jeans and a blue and black plaid shirt, and Emma can see the handle of the knife poking out just above her boots. She’s willing to bet there’s a gun stuck in the back of her jeans that she’d have no trouble firing. “Can I help you?”

She shifts behind the door, going for the gun in a manner that’s meant to be discreet, but she doesn’t quite pull it off. Emma isn’t afraid—Claire doesn’t want to shoot her. She hasn’t done anything to raise suspicion, but Claire’s a hunter and they’re a paranoid sort. “I’m here to talk to you about Castiel.”

Claire’s face goes stony and her grip on the door tightens. “I don’t anyone named Castiel.”

Emma isn’t in the mood for playing games. “Is he the reason you became a hunter?”

“Who are you?” Claire demands, and Emma can only see traces of the bright, vivacious girl she read of. She was jealous of her, of her normal, loving family, of the father who loved her enough to sacrifice himself for her. This girl only vaguely resembles her, something else that became collateral damage in the Winchesters’ fight. 

“Emma.” Emma says, then, because she knows it will elicit the desired response, “Emma Winchester.”

Claire’s hand falls to her side and she takes a step back. “Come inside.”

There are newspaper clippings on the wall, covering the fading flowered wallpaper. There’s a laptop open on the bed to an article about what from a glance looks like vampires. The smell of stale coffee fills the air. The curtains are closed to block any light and there’s a line of salt on the windowsills and doorway. Emma’s barely stepped inside before the door slams closed behind her and she finds herself slammed against it, inches off the ground. Claire is standing in the middle of the room.

“If you know about Castiel, you know about me. Being a vessel has side effects.”

It’s meant to be a warning, but Claire’s brow is furrowed with concentration and Emma guesses she can’t keep this up for long. “I’m not here to hurt you. I need your help.”

Claire’s eyes narrow, but she drops Emma to her feet. “Help with what?”

“Finding the Winchesters.”

Claire crosses her arms. “I thought you were a Winchester.”

“It’s complicated.”

“I have time.”

There’s a determined glint in Claire’s eyes that Emma suspects won’t be easy to get rid of. She’s lost her father and had her entire world changed, her faith derailed and her family broken. She’s suffered. She’s _endured_. “I’m Dean’s daughter and an Amazon. You’ve never heard of us because we don’t want you to. I’m going to find the Winchesters and kill them. If Castiel is still around he’s with them.”

Claire puts more distance between them and pulls her gun. She doesn’t aim it at her—she doesn’t even hold it properly, which clues Emma into thinking she doesn’t have much experience using it. She doesn’t doubt Claire would shoot her, if the need arose, but Emma suspects her primary method of defense is the telekinesis. “What makes you think I’m looking for Castiel?”

“Because he killed your dad.”

Claire winces and glances away. “Okay, maybe you’re right. But that doesn’t mean I’ll help you kill two other people.”

“They’re the reason my mom is dead.”

“Was she a monster?” Claire asks. “Was she like you?” 

_No, she was nothing like me._

“She was my mom.” It isn’t an answer, but Claire doesn’t push it. 

“My mom couldn’t handle losing my dad. Then when I started hearing the angels she lost it.”

Lost could mean any number of things, but Emma doesn’t ask. It isn’t any of her business. “You hear them? Like Anna?”

Claire seems surprised at the name. “You heard of Anna?”

“I read the books.”

Claire nods. “Me too.”

There’s indecision written on her face, in the stiffness of her back and the way her teeth worry at her lower lip. Claire’s read the books, knows that Sam and Dean are heroes, that they’ve saved the world. But she also knows at what price, at the people who have died because of them, the sacrifices that have been made. Her dad was one of them. 

“Sam tried to kill me.” Emma says. “They let your dad die. They made—they’re the reason my mom’s dead.”

“I don’t care about the Winchesters; I only want Castiel.”

Emma pushes of the wall and steps closer to Claire. “Do you remember it? Having him inside you?”

Claire lowers her gun, voice small when she speaks. “Every second.”

Emma tries to think of what it’s like, to feel something as ageless and powerful as an angel inside her. Angels saw the universe create and expand, they were ancient and eternal. Trying to imagine them and their god felt as pointless as thinking of Harmonia. Were angels as mindlessly faithful to their deity as Amazons? “So you saw what he saw, know what he knows?”

“Bits and pieces.” Claire says. “I get it. He was trying to do the right thing. That doesn’t make it okay. He took my dad away from me.”

“They saved a lot of people. But they hurt a lot of people too. They already stopped the world from ending. We don’t need them anymore. There are other hunters.” Emma says, low and furiously. “Why should you care about them? They didn’t care about your dad.”

It isn’t necessarily true, but it isn’t exactly untrue either. Sam and Dean did some morally ambiguous things in their time. Their story could be a cautionary tale for revenge, an irony that doesn’t escape Emma’s notice. But someone has to be held responsible for her mother’s death, and the Winchesters are the easy target.

The knife was in her hand, but they killed her all the same. It’s what she has to tell herself. 

“How did your mom die?”

Emma turns her back. She feels tears pricking her eyes, but she isn’t going to cry in front of this girl. She has to be strong, like her mother. Lydia died without shedding a tear. The least she can do is honor her memory, and be the sort of person she’d be proud of. “Are you going to help me or not?”

Claire is silent a long moment. “Yeah, I’ll help you. It’s not like the Winchesters ever stay dead anyway.”


End file.
